Disclaimer: Credit to Jonathan Nolan, Greg Plageman, and the POI writing team. Bolded sections are straight from the episodes.


QUEENSBRIDGE PARK

Chapter 8: before Zero Day


It's Day 9 of having no Number, and Reese has exhausted his admittedly short supply of patience.

In between stretches of muttering complex-sounding computer jargon to himself, Finch had kicked him out of the Library two days ago for being absolutely no help. Reese had found an outlet for his energy by driving around the city, scouring the streets for signs of trouble. But after teaching a handful of pickpockets, purse-snatchers, and wannabe gangsters some lessons, he feels the restlessness start to creep in again. Saving credit cards and cellphones falls rather short of saving lives.

He idles under the shadow of the Queensboro Bridge. Bear is back at the Library, keeping Finch better company than he had done, so he has no excuse to be at the park, except that it's a Sunday afternoon.

Twelve minutes later, he catches sight of her crossing the street, the ever-trusty Bailey perfectly in stride with her. He frowns at how serious she looks, not a trace of her usual, easygoing smile to be seen.

She's nearly at the park when a plain police car pulls up abruptly by the curb, lights flashing.

"Ma'am, please step toward the car," requests a stern voice magnified by a megaphone.

Elena and her fellow parkgoers glance uneasily at one another, trying to figure out who he's talking to.

"You with the dog, step toward the car. No sudden movements, and keep your hands where I can see them. Everyone else, go about your business."

The other pedestrians scuttle away as Elena remembers how to move, trying her best to raise her hands while maintaining a hold on Bailey's leash. His spy senses tingling, Reese is halfway out of his car and lining up a clear shot at the cop when the driver door opens —

"Lionel!"

Elena's voice is sharp with anger as she jerks her hands down and plants them firmly on her hips. Reese's relief is quickly replaced by a wave of irritation toward the detective.

Fusco is standing by his car now, laughing heartily. "You should've seen your face! You commit any crimes lately that you're expecting to get arrested for?"

"Yes, assaulting an officer!" she declares, charging toward him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He keeps the car door between them as a shield. "It was just a joke!"

She punches his arm through the open window of the car door. "Well, it wasn't — very — funny!" She punctuates the last three words with more jabs.

"All right, all right! I'm sorry, okay?" Fusco winces as he rubs his now sore arm. "Geez."

He gives her a long, searching look as she continues to glower at him. "Hey, you all right?" he asks seriously. Reese knows first-hand that Fusco has moments of surprising — and annoying — perceptiveness.

Elena's anger ebbs as quickly as it had come. She's winding Bailey's leash nervously around her fingers again. "Yes," she says slowly. "I just ... have a lot on my mind."

Reese resists the urge to slouch in his seat, even though his car is hidden behind one of the bridge's supports. He has a good inkling of what she might have to think about. His hand is halfway to absentmindedly rubbing his lips when he realizes its trajectory and quickly drops it back onto the steering wheel.

"Is it your idiot boyfriend?"

"He's not an idiot," she replies automatically, then rolls her eyes at the skeptical expression on Fusco's face. "Most of the time, anyway," she amends.

Fusco jerks his head toward his car. "C'mon, I'll buy you some ice cream, and you can tell me all about it."

The absurd suggestion is enough to bring a look of reluctant amusement onto her face. "Ice cream?" she repeats. "I'm not nine anymore, Lionel."

"You gotta be a kid to enjoy ice cream?"

She sighs and shakes her head as she walks to the other side of his car. "Someday, that's not going to work on me."

"Yeah. Someday."


"You're such a bad influence," Elena mutters.

She and Fusco are sitting in his car, each unglamorously digging into a pint of ice cream with plastic spoons that bend dangerously against the frozen dessert. Fusco had parked in an authorized-vehicles-only lot overlooking the river. Reese, who had followed them at a safe distance to and from the ice cream parlor, is parked half a block away but unabashedly listening in via their cellphones.

Fusco scoops an obscene amount of his Neapolitan blend into his mouth. "You've loved this stuff since you were a kid."

"Yes, but I have a wedding to go to next month, and I've been so good at my diet." She looks mournfully at a spoonful of her coffee-flavored ice cream before eating it anyway. "Now I'm not going to be able to fit into my dress," she laments, thickly through the mouthful of desert.

"Hell, a little bit of ice cream never hurt anyone. Besides, you look great."

"You always say that."

"I always mean it."

She rolls her eyes. "Not if you keep taking me for ride-alongs to the nearest junk food joint." The narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You're on the clock right now, aren't you?"

"I'm patrolling the area, aren't I?"

She's not impressed. "No wonder we've got the biggest deficit in the city's history. Don't tell me, you're being paid overtime right now, too."

"You going to report me to your boyfriend?"

"Of course not," she says primly. "Besides, the crime rate is the lowest in 50 years, so the police must be doing something right."

Reese smirks to himself at that, though his amusement is short-lived when he remembers why he's there in the first place, eavesdropping on them because he has no Numbers to chase.

Fusco is smirking, too. "You're welcome."

"Oh, so you're single-handedly saving the city, are you?"

"I like to think I have something to do with it."

Reese rolls his eyes, unconsciously mimicking Elena.

The dispatcher's voice crackles through the radio. Fusco listens for a moment before slouching back into his seat.

"Aren't you going to respond?" Elena asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm homicide, Ellie. That's just —"

"An armed robbery three blocks away. You're probably the closest —"

The radio crackled again as a patrol even closer to the incident answers.

Elena settles back in her seat and turns her attention back to her now half-melted ice cream. "Maybe I will tell Ken to take a look into the NYPD's overtime budget," she says haughtily.

Fusco is looking at her like she's grown another head. "And just how do you know the code for armed robbery?" he demands.

"Dad, of course."

Fusco snorts. "He never took you on a ride-along. Your father made it very clear his little princess was to have nothing to do with the force."

This time it's Elena who snorts. "And look how well that turned out."

Fusco's still looking at her expectantly, so she sighs. "Oh, all right. Do you remember the summer when Dad broke his leg and had to stay home for weeks?"

Fusco lets out a bark of laughter. "Do I remember? How could I forget? He'd call us every time something would come through on the radio. We didn't figure out until three weeks later that he had a scanner at home. Thought he just had a sixth sense for crime."

They both smile in memory, but it's tinged with sadness.

"That's how I learned all the codes. He'd listen to that thing for hours, way into the night." She frowns. "It was like he took each one personally, like every crime was somehow his fault because he wasn't out there." She impatiently clears her suddenly scratchy throat. "Silly, wasn't it? One person thinking he can save everyone in New York City."

There's a strange expression on Fusco's face, her words reminding him not of her father, but of someone else he knows. "Yeah. Silly."

In his car about 50 yards away, that someone else had gone very still, the slightly quickened beating of his heart filling the silence as Fusco and Elena sit quietly for a few moments.

"God, I miss your old man sometimes, Ellie," Fusco finally says. "He always kept me on the straight and narrow, you know? Never believed in gray areas and all that other crap."

Elena frowns as she studies Fusco, who's fiddling with his plastic spoon. "You know you can always talk to me, right, Lionel?" she says tentatively. "I'm nowhere near as good as Dad at giving advice, but if you need someone to talk to ..."

Fusco looks up at her and smiles. "Don't worry about me, Queen E. I'm all right. Always am."

"No one's always all right, Lionel. If they are, then they're lying."

He gives her a scrutinizing look. "Are you all right, Ellie? That talking thing works both ways, you know."

Elena wavers, and for a moment, she contemplates telling Lionel all about her problems with Ken, even at the risk of getting an "I told you so" of epic proportions in reply. But it's not her fair-haired boyfriend's visage that looms in her mind's eye. She sees dark hair with flecks of grey, and startlingly gentle yet piercing blue eyes —

She shakes her head, shaking the image away, and smiles. "I'm always all right, Lionel," she assures him.

He gives her a long, searching look, then slowly nods. "All right. Let's be all right together."


An hour later, having followed Fusco's car to Elena's home, and seen both her and her faithful dog safely inside, Reese returns to the Library. The thin line of Finch's mouth tells him that nothing has changed: The Machine is still on the fritz, and no new Numbers have come through.

With the barest of greetings, Reese strides to the shelves where he stores his extra equipment. Everything is neatly stacked and organized. Finch must have gotten to them in the hours he's spent holed up here. Reese grabs what he needs — and an extra gun, just for kicks.

"What are you doing?" Finch calls after Reese's retreating back as the ex-operative makes his way past with the barest of farewells.

Reese holds up a handheld radio. The barest hint of a smile crosses his lips.

"Elena Cassidy gave me an idea. If the Numbers won't come to us, I'll go to them."

And without any further explanation, he's gone.


Reese sighs over the line that neither of them bothers to turn off these days.

"You got an update for me yet, Finch?"

"This is becoming your version of 'are we there yet,' Mr. Reese. And no, we are not."

"It's been 10 days since we got a new Number," Reese unnecessarily reminds him.

"I'm working as quickly as I can," Finch reminds him, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

"Well, work faster. I don't want to find out what happens when that clock hits zero, do you?"

Finch glances at the upper right-hand corner of his screen, where the virus countdown continues to tick down. "Not particularly."

"Can you tell me if we're ever going to get another Number, or has that virus destroyed your Machine for good?"

Finch doesn't really know where this sudden loquaciousness on Reese's part is coming from. All the talking isn't really helping ... but then again, silence hadn't really helped either.

"I believe that the Machine is still active," Finch replies. "It's just unable to make contact."

"If we knew where it was, maybe we could just ... unplug it and then plug it back in."

Under different circumstances, Finch might have laughed at the suggestion. Instead, he says tersely, "Simplicity was never my strong suit."

The radio sitting on the passenger seat next to Reese beeps, and he picks it up as the latest call being broadcast over the police scanner comes through.

"It's still not clear to me how stalking the NYPD helps either of us at this unfortunate time," Finch says, raising his voice over the chatter.

"If I can't get there before something bad happens, I can at least get there the second it does."

Finch purses his lips, biting back the urge to point out the futility of Reese's reasoning. Well, if it makes him feel useful ...

The scanner sounds again. "All units, 10-3. East 54th and Lexington. Please respond."

Reese tosses the radio back onto the seat and shifts into gear, tires squealing as he pulls away from the curb and heads to the scene of the latest crime.